Gypsy Lady (18 page)

Then she gave a purr of
pleasure. He was jealous! She laughed deep in her throat and linked her arms
about his neck. "Darling, everyone knows Clive! You may meet him
everywhere."

"Was he your
lover?"

"What a ridiculous
thing to ask!" Her voice was waspish as she answered. Hiding her
nervousness, she said in a cooler tone, "He was my uncle's godson, and
I've known him since childhood. There's no reason for you to believe he's my
lover, unless—are you jealous?"

"Not jealous,
chèrie,
just curious."

"Why?" she asked
bluntly.

"He seems inordinately
curious of my actions. And I wondered."

"Oh, who knows why
Clive does anything! I'm sick of talking about him!" she said crossly.
"He's always creating problems."

Jason gave a mirthless
laugh. "How true, my pet, how true."

Her eyes sharpening with
interest, she queried, "What do you mean by that?"

"This evening he was
very intent on creating a situation from which I found it very difficult to
escape without complications."

"But you didn't
escape, you challenged him." She blurted out and could have bitten her
foolish tongue. She never should have said that! And his next words confirmed
her fears.

"Yes, so I did. But
how did you know? Clive again?" he asked coldly. "It was decided that
the ladies were not to be told."

Silently she cursed Clive
and his intrigues. Smiling seductively she complained, "Jason, did you
come here just to ask me stupid questions? If that's all you're interested in,
you may leave."

"I think not!" he
said smilingly and very deliberately kissed her parted lips. This time there
was no prolonged arousal; the passion flared into flame as soon as he touched
her. She groaned and thrust her body hungrily up to his. Suddenly he took her
brutally, as if her pleasure no longer mattered to him. But his very brutality
excited her almost as much as his.
earlier
caresses,
and quickly she felt the familiar explosion of feeling. Afterwards, she watched
him as he lay there next to
her,
she wondered how much
of her involvement with Clive he guessed. Damn Clive! If she intended to wring
a proposal from Jason, she had to be very careful. But right now she felt
more sure
of him than she had in days. He
must
love her! Didn't he seek her out? Wasn't the fact that he was here in her room
proof? Of course it was! Who knew, he might even ask her to marry him tonight!
Then she would tell him about Clive and his inquisitiveness. Snuggling down
beside him and resting her hand on his naked chest, she asked the question
women always do. "Do you love me?"

Jason could have groaned
out loud.
Mon Dieu,
why did they persist? He was in no mood to
tell meaningless lies. Abruptly he rose from the bed, jerked on his buckskin
pants, and thrust his feet into his moccasins. He looked for his shirt and
after a moment spotted it on the other side of the bed. Elizabeth, puzzled by
his actions but not certain of her claim on him, took the few steps needed to
stand in front of him. She linked her soft, scented arms about his neck and
said with a provocative smile, "You haven't answered my question. Don't
you love me?"

Staring down into the
beautiful face raised confidently to his, he answered harshly, "No!"

Startled, she dropped her
arms and stared at him, her confusion clear to see. "I—I don't understand.
What do you mean?" she stammered.

His eyes cold and
inscrutable, he said, "Very simply, I wanted you. You were willing, and in
taking you I gave as much pleasure as I received. It was enjoyable—but that
doesn't mean I love you. I desired you! You are a very lovely woman, but you
hold no more allure for me than a dozen others I could name."

"How can you say that
after what has passed between us?" she questioned, unable to believe his
brutal words.

"Desire, my dear, is
frequently mistaken for love. Fortunately, I do not believe in what you call
'love' and can recognize it for what it is—simple animal hunger!"

Her lovely dreams crumbling
about her feet, Elizabeth felt a bitter anger begin to burn in her breast. He
wasn't going to get away with this! She'd create a scandal! She darted a glance
at the locked door. All she had to do was open that door and scream. Her parents,
the Brownleighs, and the other guests would tumble into the hallway in a matter
of minutes! Jason Savage would be caught half naked in her room, and he'd have
no choice but to marry her! What did she care about the ensuing scandal and
gossip? She would be the rich Mrs. Jason Savage of Louisiana! Pasting a
glittering smile on her face, she said coolly, "How clever of you to be
able to distinguish one from the other."

Warily, he watched her as
she moved about the room searching for her peignoir. She found the robe
laying
next to his shirt, and after wrapping the garment
about her, a calculating gleam in her brown eyes, she held out his shirt
tantalizingly, saying, "Do you need this?

He reached for it slowly,
and just as his hand brushed it, she jerked it from his fingers and danced
playfully to the center of the room, clutching his shirt to her breast. A tight
smile creased his face as he crossed the room. Stopping at the corner of the
bed, he leaned back easily against one of the four posts, watching her with
slitted green eyes. There was a suppressed look of power about him that gave
the lie to his relaxed position. He was like a waiting panther, and his eyes
held a look that almost frightened her.

Her smile was provocative
as she watched him. It was a dangerous game she played, and the very danger of
it caused her heart to beat with excitement. Surreptitiously, she glanced at
the locked door, but he was closer to her than she was to the door. She'd have
to get nearer to that door—and she must have time to throw the lock.

A pout on the lips, she
teased, "Aren't you going to put on your shirt? It's awfully chilly
outside." She waved the shirt daringly close to his still form, but he
made no attempt to catch the waving garment.

He stood motionless with an
air of leashed violence that should have given her pause, but she ignored the
warning sign. Jason was furious with
himself
and vehemently
cursed his own stupidity. Very aware of his precarious position, he studied
the woman before him and had no illusions concerning Elizabeth. Almost reading
her cunning mind, he knew he must silence her effectively if he was to leave
here tonight without a scene.

Like a moth to the flame,
she danced nearer and then retreated from his waiting body. And foolishly, like
the moth, each time she came nearer the waiting flame. "Jason, love,
you're not playing! Come now, don't you want your shirt?" she taunted,
holding the garment just out of reach.

"Certainly I want my
shirt, but I have no intention of chasing you around the room to get it,"
he answered unemotionally.

If she had been less
confident of herself, she would have noticed the slight tightening of his
muscles. But she grew careless and skipped nearer. Then like a striking snake,
his arm shot out and violently ripped the buckskin shirt from her surprised
grasp. Thrown off balance, she stumbled towards him as his other hand, a fist
of clenched steel, struck her chin so forcefully her head jerked back, nearly
snapping her neck. Without a whimper she crumpled in an unconscious heap on
the floor. Kneeling beside her he gently checked for any sign of serious
injury. Finding none, he lifted and laid her on the rumpled bed, arranging
her body in a position of natural sleep.

Moving quickly now, he
threw on his shirt and crossed to the locked door. Hearing no sound from beyond
the door, he started to turn away when he noticed the lock and silently
released it. At the open window, one leg thrown over the sill, he gave the room
a sweeping glance, his gaze lingering on Elizabeth's body. If she had been able
to accept that part of himself that he was willing to give, he might have taken
her as his mistress and might have sent the gypsy girl away with a handful of
gold. But Elizabeth, like others before her, wanted something that wasn't in
him to give. Then he grinned. What a conceited coxcomb he was; they would have
gladly settled for his name and money, and not cared one bit whether he loved
them or not. His grin broadened as he took one last look at Elizabeth; tomorrow
she would wake with a throbbing headache, an aching jaw, and a bruise that
would be hard to explain. Perhaps, he thought, she'd be more selective of her
lovers in the future.

Returning to the inn
stables shortly thereafter, he wasn't surprised to find Jacques waiting for
him. The little man, his short black hair ruffled by the wind, growled,
"Up to your old tricks again, I see. You would have felt like an ass if I
had roused the place screeching about a stolen horse!"

Jason grinned at the older
man and slid from the sweating horse, saying as he did so, "But I rely on
your judgment, and I knew you were not a fool."

Grumbling, Jacques snapped,
"Off with you!" Then waving a bony finger under Jason's nose,
"But be warned! These English are different from us; you may find yourself
in a deeper river than you know."

Leaving the stallion in the
capable hands of Jacques, Jason returned silently to his rooms. On edge and not
certain why, he paced through the empty rooms, unconsciously seeking signs
that would assure him no one had entered while he had been gone. Finding
everything as it should be, he threw another log on the barely smoldering fire
and kicked it into a yellow blaze of warmth. Elizabeth was right; it was chilly
outside!

Splashing some brandy into
a goblet, he drank it slowly, savoring the taste and feel of it as it burned a
trail of fire to his belly. Then striding into the bedchamber, he stripped off
the buckskins and gingerly approached the bed. Seated on the feather mattress
he had to admit it was comfortable, if awe inspiring! And
laying
on his back, staring at the ruby canopy and thinking of the past evening, he
cursed himself for being a fool and losing his temper with Pendleton. But it
wasn't Pendleton that he'd lost his temper with; it was the whole damn business
that annoyed him. And he couldn't help blaming it on Jefferson and those damn
dispatches. He sure as hell wasn't cut out for the intrigues that surrounded
playing politics.

Even now, he could hear
Jefferson saying quietly, "I trust you will behave yourself while in
England. I realize I have no real power over you, but word of your activities
in your territory has reached my ears. Considering you are acting as my
personal courier, I hope you will conduct yourself accordingly and not embroil
yourself in such escapades while in England." Jefferson's voice becoming
drier, he had continued, "Try not to cause any scandal with the ladies,
and if possible control that hot temper of yours."

His father Guy had echoed
Jefferson's measured words, but his advice had been more pithily put.
"Stay away from those damn light skirts and don't go snaffling anyone's
wife."

Both men had been left with
the uneasy feeling they had spoken to a stone wall and now, smiling in the
dark, Jason conceded belatedly the wisdom of their remarks. Both men would be
furious when and if they heard of tonight's doings.
Which
brought him to the heart of the matter.
Why had Pendleton been so bent
on provoking him? It was obvious the man had been primed and had purposely set
out to engineer a situation where Jason would have no choice but to challenge
him. That he adroitly avoided it at the dining table didn't alleviate the fact
that Pendleton had intentionally been offensive and had, in the end, been
successful.

Unable to relax, he got up;
naked he stalked into the sitting room and poured himself another brandy.
Staring broodingly into the dancing yellow flames, he wished he hadn't allowed
his own bad temper to goad him into irresponsible action. But Pendleton's
earlier taunts and Barrymore's and Harris's questioning of his courage had
combined to raise his temper to a dangerous degree. It had only needed
Pendleton to sneeringly turn his back on him, as he prepared to leave the card
room, to cause his already smoldering temper to burst into white hot flame.
Without thinking, he had spun the startled Pendleton around, and taking the
wine glass from his hand, had contemptuously thrown the contents in the man's
face. Pendleton, nearly choking with rage, had shouted for Jason to name his
seconds, and curtly, Jason bit out Barrymore's and Harris's names.

For the love of God! He'd
been a fool to let Pendleton get under his skin. Particularly without knowing
what was behind it. Roxbury would be deservedly displeased with his antics and
reviewing the situation coolly, he couldn't blame him.
Juste ciel,
he'd acted like a virgin schoolboy!

Settled once more in bed,
Jason tried to force his disturbing thoughts onto more pleasurable objects,
but even dwelling on the charms of the little gypsy did nothing to halt more
unwelcome ideas from creeping in, and restlessly he turned in the big bed,
wondering if there was a connection between those dispatches he had delivered
to King and the attempts to search his London rooms. Or was Pendleton's
interest merely curiosity?
And if it was Jefferson's
instructions that intrigued Pendleton, why now?
Why weeks after he had
delivered them? Unless— unless—but Jesus! It couldn't be that! Only he and
Jefferson knew about the other. Not even his father knew of those last private
instructions; but, he thought suddenly, there could be a leak at Livingston's
end, in Paris. Momentarily he had the uneasy feeling he had stepped off into
one of the treacherous patches of quicksand that abounded in the mysterious
swamps and bayous of Louisiana.